The Trouble With Starks and Stripes
by Seprophim
Summary: Because Fury apparently thought spying on superheroes from afar got old when said superheroes couldn't figure out how to stay out of mortal danger. Tony wished he could dispute that...but then again he had just shot himself in the leg. Slow build Stony.
1. Chapter 1

There were too many of them. Tony had no chance of fighting them off, not on his own. And he didn't think anybody would be showing up to help him anytime soon.

He was surrounded, surrounded by vaguely humanoid shapes with evilly glinting eyes. Big fat ears, too. A sea of the little ugly bastards.

Ugly and not too strong either. One at a time was no problem, and at the beginning he simply took a leaf out of Hawkeye's book, hovered a couple (ten) feet off the ground, and used them as target practice.

Then things grew more complicated. His right repulsor needed a second longer than usual to recharge and one of the Gremlins—it was as apt a name as any—latched onto his left leg.

"Shit," he said in an embarrassingly high voice and fired.

It was pure luck he didn't take his own leg off. Instead, the blast fractured his knee and possibly his ankle, diagnosis courtesy of Jarvis. Then the possible ankle fracture became definite as his left leg jets went offline and Tony slammed sideways into the wall, lost control of his right jet, and fell.

And then it was just him limping in a fearsome circle, trying to hold some amount of ground while sending repulsor blasts outward.

"Jarvis, is firing at one's own leg a good idea?" Tony said, hitting one of the Gremlins right between its three eyes.

"I don't know," came Jarvis's cool voice from beside his ear. "Is it, sir?"

Smartass. Tony loved Jarvis sometimes and hated him other times. This time was in a category all its own. "The correct answer was no, and I hope you realize that next time."

"I hope the same for you, sir."

Using both of his repulsors at once and knowing it would leave him vulnerable for a few precious moments, Tony blasted the Gremlins on both sides. "Fuck you, Jarvis," said Tony and the lack of response made him feel a little better—at least until a Gremlin took a flying leap for his faceplate.

The Iron Man suit, despite all of its enhancements, had not been made for hand to hand combat—so while he was wrestling with one Gremlin, he felt the pressure of one, two, three more on his back and arms.

Tony hit the floor in an undignified sprawl, sending shooting pains through his leg. "Jarvis, cut all power except for armor, order three five volleyball—"

Everything went dark. Even the lights of his suit console blinked out for a moment. The pressure of the Gremlins disappeared.

Tony froze. "Jarvis?"

"Tony," said a voice from somewhere in the dark.

It took Tony a second to realize it was Pepper, a second because she sounded so angry she had passed anger and moved on to disappointment and, well, the last time she had sounded like this he'd done his best to block the memory from his mind.

Ton decided to aim for easy, light conversation, stuff that was no trouble broken leg or not. "Oh, hey, Pep. Mind turning the lights back on?" He thought about asking Jarvis to nullify her override codes but decided it was probably not the time.

"Jarvis, authority nineteen-five-nineteen-double-five-twenty-one, lights."

The lights came on, illuminating the gray room that looked so much bigger when empty. Tony flipped open the faceplate and held up one arm. When did he make the lights so fucking bright?

"_Tony_," Pepper said again, arms folded. "What is this?"

"An advanced simulation utilizing the suit's full-body sensitivity functions and the visual capabilities of the faceplate. Meant to quicken reaction times and prep for real-life scenarios, ergo, future invasions from extraterrestrial forces and or threats on this Earth." And damn, he should have known better than to try _that _tactic on her because the look she gave him said she was buying none of it.

"You can either say that again, slower, or tell me what it actually is," Pepper said, carefully level, with her jaw set.

Tony sighed. "It's a fancy-ass video game system that's more realistic than is strictly healthy. Can I go now, Mom?" He made an attempt to roll over before remembering his leg. Shit. More realistic had not been the best way to go.

"What happened to your leg?" Pepper said, her voice lifting up a little at the end like it always did when she was worried. She crouched down next to him. Her blonde hair tickled his nose and smelled like artificial vanilla.

"Guess what, being realistic _sucks_," Tony muttered and struggled to sit up, relying on Pepper for an emasculating amount of support.

"What Mr. Stark is trying to say is that his knee and ankle are fractured due to human error and a large amount of attention to detail in the programming," chimed in Jarvis smoothly, voice no longer in Tony's ears but from the speakers embedded in the ceiling. "I suggest he obtains the proper medical attention immediately."

Tony protested at that. "It wasn—"

"I don't want to know, Tony. I don't even want to know why you were planning on activating three five volleyball. Jarvis, how long has it been since Tony ate?" Pepper said, cutting him off.

"Approximately three and a half hours, Ms. Potts."

"See?" Tony said, rolling his eyes. At least she hadn't asked how long it'd been since he slept. "I'm fine, Pep. Jarvis, can you send Dummy—okay, maybe not Dummy, but something down with gauze?"

"No. You're not doing this. Tony, I thought you'd been doing better." And there it was, the disappointed, you've-let-me-down-again, kicked puppy voice (not like that made sense, but whatever). Tony shrugged. Not like he hadn't heard it before.

When she'd found out blowing up his suits and 'burying his past for their future' actually meant temporarily burying them underground. When she'd found out he still woke up from nightmares. And now, now, he had the feeling this was the worst of them all.

"So this is why you're still getting nightmares? I'm not stupid, Tony. I'm going to get a doctor." Pepper walked him over, slowly, to the wall and let him sit against it. Tony was tempted to point out that Jarvis could easily call a doctor, just to spite her, just to make her acknowledge that she was trying to get away.

But instead he watched her retreating back and counted out precisely three minutes before calling Jarvis.

"Hey, Jarvis? Get something down with the gauze and probably some hard cast material, the one I made myself. Pull up the Youtube video I used when I broke my arm—yeah, that one, user name papaya something." He shifted his leg and winced. "You can get the McKinney scotch too."

"Yes, sir," said Jarvis.

"So what did we learn from that ordeal, then, Jarvis?"

"Not to trust you in battle, sir?" pointed out Jarvis as dryly as an AI could.

"Good man. Pull up my Gremlin game design. I need to change some things."

Jarvis hesitated. "Sir, you have a call coming through, would you like to take it?"

"Do I look like I would like to? Tell them I'm busy. No, wait, if it's Pepper, say to go to Dr. Delhmi and nobody else—"

"Sir," said Jarvis with calm purpose. "It's from Director Fury on SHIELD's highest security line."

Twisting his wrists in an attempt to stretch, Tony paused for a moment. "Put him through," he conceded finally. "But let it ring once or twice first."


	2. Chapter 2

The whole thing was the Captain's fault. And Tony wasn't even being petty, because it _was, _the good ol' rule-following Captain was the reason they were all assembled in Avengers HQ—in one of those boring conference rooms Tony had made a career out of avoiding, no less.

Well, all of them minus the aforementioned. Apparently super soldiers weren't immune to ninjas. Well, actually—Chinese assassins. Top secret stuff. Hill had been very vague about it when she'd picked him up from Stark Tower.

"As a precaution, I am ordering that you all—and the Captain—live at the SHIELD headquarters nearby. Yes, that includes you, Stark, consultant or not," said Fury, flatly cutting off Tony's protests. "If you want to even have a chance of staying on the Avengers, you'll do as I say."

"Sorry, Avengers versus Stark Tower? No offense, nothing personal, but I'll take the booze, lab, and Jarvis over Avengers any day," said Tony, an abject lie considering he'd built a floor in the aforementioned tower just for simulating—well, he didn't want to think about what that meant about his state of mind.

"Then you're out," said Fury. His voice rose the tiniest bit, just enough to be firm but not enough to sound like he actually cared.

Tony shrugged, to show he didn't actually care either, and fumbled under the table for his collapsible crutches. It was out of the question, Tony told himself. He couldn't leave his lab behind. Pepper, too. It was not. Going. To. Happen. Where were his crutches?

"Stark, when I said out, I meant it literally."

"Give me a second, my crutches fell—wait, why don't the Avengers stay at Stark Tower?" blurted Tony, and, wow, he hadn't meant to sound quite so desperate, but there it was. Best of both worlds. His lab and the Avengers to make sure he didn't go crazy from some combination of boredom and post traumatic stress disorder.

He was more than a little miffed to see a conspicuous lack of enthusiasm at the suggestion. Fury looked more or less unsurprised, Natasha looked her usual—blank—and Bruce and Barton both had stormy looks on their faces and arms crossed.

"It makes sense, I get what I want, you get what you want. Plus a whole load of better tech, better security systems, I even have some robots around to help our dear Captain." Tony made a face. "I'm sure I have spare crutches around."

"Captain Rogers broke his _back_," pointed out Natasha flatly.

Tony counted the fact she'd only objected to that point as a win in his book. "I'll make him a metal back," Tony said with a wave of his hand. Natasha arched a single perfect eyebrow. "I'll do something nice, okay?"

Natasha's unblinking stare said a thousand words and Tony was sure they were all insulting. And then: "I told you."

"What?"

"Damn," said Fury, closing his eyes for a moment. Then he pulled out a twenty-dollar bill from his pocket and handed it over to Natasha.

The penny dropped. "You were betting on me inviting the Avengers to…now that's just mean," he said accusingly.

Barton laughed. "Never bet against Natasha," he said to Fury.

"Can I retract my very generous invitation?" scowled Tony and Natasha gave him a smile that was more terrifying than her usual stare.

"No," she said sweetly. Tony decided, prudently, not to push the issue.

* * *

The Captain was already in a wheelchair, looking no worse for wear except for a small bandage taped over his nose and a tired smile. "How are you, Stark?" he said cordially.

"Apart from the busted leg, never been better." He pushed the wheelchair out of the hospital room with some difficulty. Crutches, even his upgraded ones, made walking challenging. "You knew I was coming?"

"Natasha bet me you wouldn't, I thought you would." Steve shrugged. "Don't ask why, I was on some heavy pain meds."

Well, wasn't that just dandy. "Talk about hedging your bets," Tony muttered to himself. Wheelchair pushing turned out to be far more tiring than expected. Eventually, to his relief, the Captain began pushing the chair himself after Tony's limping grew too pathetic.

They still made a rather pathetic sight, like two mangy cats straggling down the hall, and Tony was very glad none of the others had come. A rather attractive nurse passed by and gave them pitying looks.

Tony put a maybe-not-so friendly arm around the Captain's shoulders in some perverse attempt to regain his pride. Hey—looking like he was taken beat looking like a limping prude. Because not flirting for one second made him a prude. Yeah. Logic. Maybe Steve's pain meds were gaseous and infecting his brain.

It was probably the scotch earlier, come to think of it. He hadn't drunk that much though—Hill had been sitting in the car with her judging dark eyes boring into him the whole time. Who could blame him. He'd shortly be hosting the Avengers under one roof—his roof—which would likely be destroyed when all was said and done.

The nurse passed by and he left his arm on Cap's broad shoulders just to see what would happen. It wasn't long before he was unceremoniously shrugged off.

"Are you really that hurt that you need to lean on a crippled man?" said the Captain in a long-suffering voice and Tony might have laughed and mistaken it for banter if it hadn't been from Captain Prissypants. Tony scowled and withdrew his arm.

Tony was just being, um, nice—or maybe he was messing with him, a little bit. It was fun to wind the Captain up and poking fun at his forties' habits was the easiest way to go.

Yep, he wasn't being petty at all.

"So," he said when it was clear the Captain wasn't going to make conversation. "Let's tell our war stories." Oops. Bad phrasing. He could see by the furrow between Rogers' eyebrows that it hadn't exactly gone unnoticed. "I meant, like, for instance I broke my leg by shooting myself. Your turn."

Rogers' eyebrows shot up but he didn't comment. "A Chinese gas bomb went off inside my car and then a SHIELD agent tackled me into oncoming traffic. There was a truck."

"Wait, wait, a SHIELD agent tackled _you_?" asked Tony. Sure, he could believe the part about the truck. And even the Chinese gas bomb—weirder things had happened. He did wish there had been some ninjas though.

"There may have been two involved," admitted Steve. "I don't know. It's a bit blurry."

"Still, you're like, I don't know. Made of steel," he said, clapping a hand against Steve's shoulder and enjoying the way the super soldier jumped.

The world swooped underneath Tony's feet suddenly, or, rather, he stumbled. The Captain fixed him with a half concerned, half disdainful look. "Are you _drunk_?"

"No. What," Tony said, making a split second decision and slapping the Captain's ass, which was quite an accomplishment considering the wheelchair and his crutches. "Haven't gotten used to this ye—"

"Not everyone's like you, Stark," the Captain said stiffly and rolled faster.

"Who put that stick up your ass? Oh, don't worry, we're very accepting now," said Tony, limping after him. It was a low blow, not his best riposte, but he was more worried than he'd let on. Stark Tower would need a lot of changes, to keep the Avengers out of each others' hair and, really, this idea was sounding worse and worse.

Even in emergency conditions, they'd nearly managed to kill each other and it had taken one agent's supposed death to fix it. Supposed. The SHIELD databases were so open Justin Hammer could have hacked it and, boy, was that saying a lot.

The Captain stopped rolling then started again. "Just because I was born in the forties doesn't mean I was homophobic," he said softly and Tony remembered, suddenly, that the Howling Commandos had once come under fire for turning a blind eye to gay soldiers.

Hm. Maybe talking about his dead forties war buddies was not the best course of action. Getting punched by a supersoldier was not high on his list of priorities, especially since he'd be living with said supersoldier for an indefinite period of time.

Wow. Scary thought.

Why did being generous always seem to bite him in the ass?


	3. Chapter 3

The whole moving in process went a lot smoother than expected. Banner seemed to approve of his floor—hastily adapted from Tony's 'practical experiments' lab to something more fitting of the Hulk—or at least he didn't protest it. He did ask where the kitchen was, which threw Tony for a loop, but he hadn't Hulked out. Yet.

Granted, it had been about an hour since the Avengers had begun moving in, but still. Progress was being had in leaps and bounds in the world of team building.

Nobody had been shot, at least. Barton had almost taken out his bow when he discovered that no, Tony did not have a separate room set aside for his archery equipment, nor did he have an archery range—but he'd been quickly appeased by Tony's promises of video games and the imminent creation of some archer-friendly zone.

Really, it was ridiculous. Tony thought he heard Barton and Natasha laughing at him when he left Barton's room, but Natasha had already been comfortably settled on the floor above. He'd left her poking around the room after she'd fixed him with a very blank stare he'd only later realized meant "fuck off and let me explore yourhouse in peace, godammit".

"Jarvis, has Nat been messing with her room?" Tony asked to thin air as he made his way to the Captain's room.

"If by 'messing', you mean dismantling the vents with absolutely no regard for well-made technology, then yes, sir," said Jarvis, sounding very miffed. "She has—I believe the word is shimmied—down to Agent Barton's room."

"Oh, well, keep an eye on her. But don't tell her I said that. And don't tell her not to do things. I would rather keep all of my organs intact."

"Noted, sir."

Tony found the Captain turning back and forth in his wheelchair with a very odd expression on his face. "I'm pretty sure 'Twist and Shout' was a little later than the forties," he said, utterly bemused.

"What's 'Twist and Shout'?" asked Rogers. He'd stopped twisting, though, so that had to be a good thing.

"Never mind. What were you doing?"

Rogers shrugged. "I'm supposed to be okay in a week or so. Just checking."

"Fair enough." Tony pulled over a chair and sat backwards on it. "So. How is your stay in Stark Tower going?"

"Well so far. The company is a little lacking, though," Rogers shot back with raised eyebrows.

"When did you get a sense of humor?" snorted Tony approvingly and immediately, like a switch had been flicked, the Captain's face shut off. It was rather unnerving and made something in Tony's stomach flip with worry. "Hey. Don't look like that. That was funny. See? I'm smiling."

Rogers furrowed his brows and refused to meet his gaze. Tony sighed. So much for team building. He stood up. "I upgraded a gym for you and Natasha so…well, she can show you it. You can always, uh, charge things with your wheelchair or something until you get better. Won't take long. Yeah, I'm going to go now."

Rogers didn't comment and Tony left before he could think too much about the look in the super soldier's eyes.

That meeting was probably the most civil meeting they had for a while. As far as Tony was concerned, Rogers had used up his friendliness points—yes, that was a thing—and wasn't worth the effort at the moment. Not when he had three other Avengers to worry about (read: keep from destroying the Tower) as well.

Whoever had said that living with other people made you hate them wasn't kidding. In the first _week_, Tony could honestly say even he was getting tired of fights, silly, petty, idiotic fights that normally he was the sole perpetrator of. But now there were five superheroes that weren't really used to this whole having-to-deal-with-people thing in one house—Tony thanked whatever gods might exist that Thor hadn't moved in too.

In fact, he had no idea where Thor was. Ah well. Yay for small blessings.

Most (all) of the time they avoided each other, because, well, whenever the Avengers met up, they bickered and bickered until it became a full blown fight—Tony had never realized how specific he was about the way his dishes were stacked, and Rogers turned out to be the type who tried very hard to remember things like that but just didn't. Barton and Natasha couldn't care less, for the most part, but when it came to some small things—like the color of the lighting—they were extremely particular. They also did everything together, which was less objectionable because it meant Tony could avoid them both at the same time.

Bruce spent most of his time working away and borrowing Tony's lab and Tony managed the annoyance of having to put his things back _just so _with remarkable aplomb. The first time Fury dropped by to check up on them—"to make sure everything Agent Romanoff is telling me isn't a complete lie"—he was surprised to find that them all in relatively good health, albeit restless.

Only Natasha and Clint kept going to SHIELD for work and Clint only went half hours. He spent the rest of the time with a bitter smile, playing video games and shooting targets and generally being grumpy. Tony wasn't sure why he didn't go to SHIELD but he didn't ask. Poking at each others' weak points had become old around day four.

Whatever they did, whether they had tracked down Rogers's mystery Chinese would-be assassinators, Tony didn't know and he honestly didn't care. He spent a lot of time in his lab, tinkering with new suits and inventions and other little bits and bobs he hadn't had time to work on before. He visited the Gremlin floor at night sometimes and defeated them almost effortlessly every time, even in crutches. It was getting too easy.

Rogers had almost fully recovered from his back injury after a mere six days, which totally wasn't fair considering Tony would be stuck with crutches for a month. He had given in and gone to Dr. Delhmi willingly after he realized it was an excuse to spend some time on his own.

It had been one week_, _and the amount of progress made in teambuilding still stood at exactly zero. It had probably even regressed, if Tony was to be perfectly honest.

"Why do you even stay here? Don't you have a girlfriend?" prodded Clint one day. "Pepper something?"

"Pepper?" Tony repeated dumbly before remembering. "Oh. Right, yeah, Pepper." That ended their conversation, but Tony thought about it for a while. Pepper. He hadn't seen her, hadn't even talked to her after his harried announcement about the Avengers moving in. She hadn't even emailed him to bother him about forms.

It was—weird. Usually she was around, reminding him to do this and that, checking up on him every few hours. But now she wasn't. She wasn't even in his life. It'd only been a week, but in Tony's book that was a _lot _of Pepper-less time.

So for once, Tony made the effort and gave Pepper a call.


	4. Chapter 4

Well, Tony had Jarvis make the call. But it was the thought that counted, right?

Pepper picked up on the second ring. "Hey, Tony, this isn't a good time." At least she didn't sound that horrible mixture of disappointed and angry anymore; resigned was a better word for it. "Can we meet for dinner? Reggiano's?"

Tony blinked. That saved time. "Sure, yeah, definitely. What I was going to ask, actually—"

"Okay, see you then," she cut him off abruptly. "Sorry. Gotta run."

"Yeah. Um. See you." And he was left staring up at the speaker in his lab, completely confused—well, not completely, but he'd rather feel confusion than sinking apprehension.

"Shit," Tony said aloud.

The lack of surprise in her voice, like she'd been considering calling him before his name had popped up on her phone screen, the quick getaway, the obvious lie. How she wanted to see him, but didn't want to prolong their conversation.

He was a genius, after all. The real question was how hadn't he seen it sooner?

* * *

"Seriously?" was the first question Tony asked that night. No hello, nothing. Yeah, it was rude but she'd lost the privilege (aka chore) of lecturing him about his manners.

He knew what she was going to say. He could see from the stoic twist of her lips that she knew he knew what she was going to say—so why bother.

"Tony," she sighed in that way he had heard so many times before and, now, might not hear again.

The thought hurt. Just a little, though. Seriously. He was _Tony Stark_. He could fucking pay people to sigh at him. It was stupid to be all hung up on one little condescending sigh.

"I'm sorry," she said and the worst part was it sounded like she _meant _it.

"Great." Tony held up his hands as Pepper gave him a half concerned, half suspicious expression. God, she was gorgeous when she was…worrying about him like he was a little kid.

Wow. Genius right there.

"Really. Great. Okay. Bye-bye. See you never." Tony gestured at a waiter. "Can I get some wine? Yeah. Bring the bottle."

"_Tony_." The waiter handed him a bottle and scurried away as quickly as he could.

"No," Tony said, not bothering to pour the wine into his glass. He took a sip and winced. "Wow. Dummy could make better wine then this shit."

"Tony," Pepper repeated, frowning.

He pointed the bottle at her. "No. You're not allowed to say my name, like I'm supposed to _listen _to you, goddammit, if you're breaking up with me." He took another long drink.

"I just…" she looked like she was resisting the urge to knock the bottle out of his hand. "Well. I was going to wait to tell you this, but I obviously can't continue working for you anymore. Not full time."

Tony made a deliberate point of looking Pepper in the eyes. He'd always liked her eyes. "Not full time? So…part time?"

Pepper cleared her throat with difficulty. "I was thinking co-CEO. I have a successor in mind. He's—"

"Great. Whatever." The thought that her 'co-CEO' might be more than just a coworker flitted by and was quickly dismissed. Pepper was nothing if not professional. But the knot of jealousy in his stomach stayed. "Now can I go? This stuff isn't tasting any better."

"Tony," she said and he pointed the bottle at her again, narrowly avoiding splashing her in the face, which, truth be told, was not a completely unattractive prospect. "Sorry. Just, don't shut me out, okay? I'm still your friend."  
"Yeah, sure. Really. Have fun with the co-CEO. Bye." The chair squealed as he pushed it back and Pepper let him go this time. She even politely pretended not to notice his brief entanglement with his crutches.

"Bye, Tony," she said softly. Tony tried not to care. It was probably better to be out of the restaurant before he broke something.

* * *

As a matter of fact, Tony didn't break something. Once he got back into the sanctuary of his lab, he broke several somethings—Dummy, the door on his Shelby Cobra (who knew crutches could cause damage), and then one of his aforementioned crutches.

It was a miracle the crutch hadn't exploded or anything, considering he'd given it some firepower for shits and giggles. You know. Normal Stark upgrades.

He considered getting Jarvis to fetch him another crutch, but really couldn't be bothered. What did he have to do anyway? The Avengers could manage themselves.

So instead he picked up a StarkPad from a nearby table and sat down on the ground to work. The cartoonish Gremlin icon caught his eye, and, well, why the fuck not. Pepper wasn't around to care anymore.

Tony worked for a while, configuring the Gremlins to make them smarter and stronger and more organized. More strategic. Like a game of chess with a healthy dose of brute force.

It was an empty thrill, though. He'd removed the more realistic settings—knowing if he injured himself anymore, he'd be off the Avengers for good—and so it was only a few notches above one of Clint's Call of Duty games.

The Captain came by sometime later and banged on the lab door for a while. Something about Jarvis being worried. Tony took one look at him, resplendent in sweatpants and built like Thor, and wondered, stupidly, if Pepper would have stayed if he'd looked like that.

Then he shook it off—for God's sake, he was Tony Stark, not some kid in high school—and told Rogers to go fuck off.

For once, the Captain listened.

It wasn't until Tony saw the tears dotted on his StarkPad screen that he realized why. 


	5. Chapter 5

Surprisingly, life went on. Pepper still came by on occasion—something about not trusting her new co-CEO (Tony didn't know nor did he care how that worked) and Tony did his best to act happy. When she left, he sulked and fought with the Gremlins and the other Avengers learned to avoid him. Not that they would've sought him out anyway.

But Tony didn't sulk long. He was busy, busy with the Avengers on top of his projects, busy with new, pressing responsibilities—like making sure food was around, for one.

Who knew stuck-up super soldiers ate so much (even more than Bruce, seriously). Tony had to go over how to order takeout from Jarvis at least three times before it finally stuck in Rogers's simple brain.

But things were getting better.

Bruce, unsurprisingly, turned out to be most peaceful of them. First, because of the mean green fear factor. Second, because if he was mad with someone he didn't cook for them and that got old very, very quickly.

Bruce was an amazing cook—"I don't usually have this much to work with," he said, waving a wooden spoon as if that explained it all—and Tony decided, mouth full of peanut butter cookies, not to question it.

As he found out a few minutes later, Natasha was allergic to peanut butter, evinced by the deadly look she leveled on Bruce. "Couldn't you have just made chocolate chip?" she snapped before turning around and marching right out of the kitchen, probably to go destroy some practice dummies in Tony's upgraded gym.

Bruce actually laughed at that and Tony left for his lab feeling very proud of himself for no reason at all.

Even Clint had become a little less reticent, when Tony had shown off his various video game systems (liberally upgraded, of course). Tony wasn't too good at Call of Duty—but Jarvis was, so everyone was happy in the end.

And when Clint was happy, so was Natasha—which was kind of sweet, in a "he better be happy or you're dead" way. Tony lost count of the times he walked in on Natasha kicking Clint's ass at Call of Duty, or even draped over the couch next to him like a cat.

Eventually, Natasha stopped going for one of her multiple throwing knives when Tony entered the room and he stopped, well, avoiding her. That was a start, wasn't it?

So progress had been made on all fronts. Except for the big, blond, spangled one: the Capsicle.

God, that guy. The takeout thing was only the beginning.

Down to the way Rogers looked at him was annoying. He stared, sometimes, weirdly, too. Like he was appraising him, sizing him up, comparing him to someone—who, after an impromptu investigation into the Captain's files, Tony decided was his father.

It was an unwelcome thought tinged with no small amount of acrimony. He had grown up with Captain America stories—he still had a bobblehead buried somewhere in his closet, dammit. And the man couldn't stop sending him these sideways looks, like _Tony _had been the one coming back from the dead.

Stupid, really. Not to mention that even on the rare occasion he'd smile—which was rather nice, incidentally, because you had to earn his smiles (Tony just liked making people laugh, that was it)—you knew it wouldn't last long.

Not long before someone, usually Tony, said something strange and not even all that modern and the Captain would go into this sad puppy-eyed daze and go off and destroy some other part of Tony's gym.

It was quite annoying. Tony was putting actual, real effort into teambuilding, maybe because it was a distraction from Pepper and maybe because he actually wanted to be a good part of the Avengers (hah), so the least Rogers could have done was acknowledge that.

But even so…it really wasn't half bad.

Then one day Tony realized—

"One month anniversary," he said, his StarkPad propped up on his lap as he watched Bruce make dinner.

"Stop the presses." Bruce knocked a carton of peas off the counter and knelt down to pick them all up. Tony was mildly surprised he didn't Hulk out then and there.

A few heavy footsteps and a sweaty Steve Rogers entered the kitchen. "Smells good," he said cheerfully and appropriated a dishtowel to wipe his face.

Tony made a sound of exaggerated disgust. "Capsicle germs. Don't infect me with your morality, that shit is contagious."

So maybe his teambuilding strategy wasn't the most diplomatic one out there. It beat Fury's sarcastic suggestion (passed on via Natasha) that they all 'take a bath together and get over your-damn-selves'.

Steve paused to give him an appraising look and Tony's skin crawled. "Okay. Stop that. Stop that right now."

"What?" Steve said. And maybe he realized what he was doing because the back of his neck was flushed bright red.

"Do I really look like my father that much?" Tony said darkly. "Can you just not stand to see me without thinking about him?"

Steve flinched, and his stance turned defensive. "I never said—"

Natasha appeared at the door, creepily silent, as always. Clint wasn't far behind and greeted them with a loud "sup, bitches."

"Alfredo sauce with peas," said Bruce, who didn't sound overly thrilled about the sudden influx of people in his work area.

"You didn't have to say it," Tony said, no less annoyed and not willing to let the Captain escape this time. "It's obvious."

Clint, oblivious or uncaring or maybe some combination of the two, meandered over to peek into the pot. "Go away," said Bruce snippily. "Nat, control him."

Steve didn't meet Tony's eyes and his voice was sullen. "It's not that easy to just forget, Tony."

"Don't call me Nat," Natasha said in a flat monotone but otherwise did nothing to restrain Clint.

"Well, try a little harder, won't you, _Steve_," sniped Tony. "I don't hold you to everything my dad said about you." Even though, really, it was all true. He hated to admit it, but Howard Stark had been right about one thing and that was Captain America's moral perfection.

Moody or not, Steve was right in all the big ways—with the important things. That was why Fury trusted him—that was why he sometimes went into SHIELD with Natasha and Clint while Tony and Bruce stayed home and played in the lab.

It made Tony want to punch Steve in the face, honest to God.

"Clint," Bruce said. He sounded very put-upon. "Please don't sit on the stove."

"What did he say about me?" Steve asked softly and oh-so-vulnerably.

Puppy. That was what Steve was. A goddamned puppy.

Tony snorted. "Oh, so now her Majesty the Captain gives a shit about what I say." Petty, but it took two to tango.

He was not expecting Steve to agree.

"Yes?" the Captain said in that same innocent voice and that was when Tony punched him.


	6. Chapter 6

Or at least Tony tried to.

Steve, in some lightning fast karate-judo-whatever move he could have only learned from Natasha, twisted his fist and tossed it back. Tony found himself clutching his own wrist backwards—a strange and painful experience—as he stumbled into the countertop.

That was embarrassing. His fist hadn't even made contact with Rogers's face.

"There's only one person I'd let punch me," said Steve, breathing hard but in a way Tony figured was more from anger than exertion. "And you're not half the man he _ever_ was."

With a surprising flair for the dramatic, the Captain whipped around and stalked towards the door. He was still holding the dishtowel in his left hand, which struck Tony as very funny for some reason.

It took about three seconds for Tony's brain to start working—sorting through the very limited amount of people Steve cared for, filtering out the one woman, and it was obvious.

"Bucky, huh? Kinky," mocked Tony and Rogers disappeared in the general direction of the gym.

Tony was briefly considering asking Jarvis to disable the automatic doors, just to be a bastard, when he heard a feminine sigh from behind him.

"Oh, don't tell me you bet on this too, Red."

"That was me," muttered Clint. "Are you saying I sound like a girl?"

"Yes," said Tony at the same time Natasha said, "Is that a bad thing?"

She sounded threatening, but Tony knew her well enough to say she was (probably) joking.

Bruce ignored the burgeoning quarrel—Tony heard a few "ow"s from behind him that suggested Natasha hadn't been kidding after all—and abandoned his Alfredo sauce to talk face to face. "Are you okay, Tony?"

Tony laughed a little hysterically. "You're asking me? I just made fun of Cap's not-really-boyfriend who he saw die right in front of him. And probably short-circuited his forties sensibilities. Actually, I don't know, Bucky could have been his boyfriend. It would've explained a lot."

(Fuck, even Tony didn't know what he meant by that)

"Whom. And, yeah, you don't have much of a right to be upset, but you look as if you're trying to break the counter slash your knuckles," noted Bruce with otherworldly calm.

Tony hadn't even realized he was gripping the countertop, much less so hard his knuckles were white. He released the marble. "Oops."

"Why'd you do it?"

"Marble causes me deep inner anger."

"Not the counter." Bruce looked close to smiling for a moment and something in that lowered Tony's defenses.

Tony shrugged. "I don't know, Bruce."

The fight had stopped behind him and it wasn't long before Natasha and Clint joined Bruce in the Tony Stark therapy session.

Or interrogation. It was a matter of perspective, really.

"Not that I don't appreciate it or anything, but why are you all looking at me and not comforting our dear Capsicle?" said Tony when the weight of three pairs of eyes grew too uncomfortable.

"He deals better with being alone than you do," said Natasha clinically.

"What?" sputtered Tony. "I spend most of my time in my lab, alone. And I would say patenting over five hundred new products in a year is a good use of _being alone_. At least I don't act like Legolas over there and—"

Barton made a face at him and Tony made one back.

Natasha kept talking as if he hadn't said a thing. "You made an artificial intelligence program whose main function is to put up with you when you work. When you're alone and angry, you work until you pass out from hunger or sleep deprivation, whatever comes first. Even the Captain has better ways of dealing with his sadness."

"Oh, so with me, it's anger, but with him it's sadness."

Bruce shrugs. "She's right, Tony."

"Oh, come on," said Tony. "The Cap has a self sacrificing streak a mile wide. He's more likely to work himself to death than I am."

With infinite patience, Natasha continued her unasked for and unwanted psychoanalyzation. "He would only do that if he thought it benefited the team. He is much less likely to engage in self-destructive behavior."

Tony mentally completed that with _for no reason_ and crossed his arms. "Well, tell the Cap to stop comparing me to my father and then I'll stop engaging in self-destructive behavior."

Even he could hear how pathetic that sounded.

"How do you know he was comparing you to your father?" put in Barton.

"I—I could tell."

He could hear how pathetic _that_ sounded, too.

A brief silence fell, broken only by a burst of invective from Bruce as he realized his Alfredo was smoking dangerously.

Tony waited. Nothing happened.

Nobody, not even one of the two remaining pseudo-therapists, told Tony he was wrong. Natasha had even started playing something on her iPhone—an Apple product in his house, how had he not sensed its alien and inefficient presence before—and Barton was surreptitiously keeping an eye on the state of the remaining Alfredo.

They didn't yell at him—even though Barton occasionally threw him a "seriously, dude" kind of look—and they didn't order him to go apologize.

Tony was actually rather hoping they would do something of the sort. That way, he could have felt at least a little vindicated in his unwillingness to make up for what he'd said to Cap.

Tony sighed. Oh, he'd never liked guilt and it'd never liked him.

He'd been expecting a talking-to of Pepper proportions, something he could snark at and dismiss. He'd been expecting them to all take Cap's side. Then he could have been Tony Stark, abandoned and alone in his own world— and always right.

"You know, I think I preferred being Tony Stark, lone wolf, to this whole team thing," Tony scowled half-heartedly, crossing his arms.

Even Bruce pulled his attention away from his precious sauce to give him a "oh, really" look.

Tony glared back for a few seconds before he had to accept defeat. The combined glares of his three personal mother hens proved to be quite formidable (they had Natasha on their side, after all) and he fled in the general direction of the gym.

And if he planned on getting something from his lab first, well, that was his business. 

* * *

_A/N: I am so sorry. My updating was terrible this round. If I ever take this long, or even half as long, feel free to message me and complain or something._


End file.
